Disarm You with a Smile
by merendina
Summary: He can't even begin to count how many times she has crossed the line. / Scattered series of Rivetra vignettes, in which Petra is a handful, and Levi is just a dork.
1. Polite Company

_**A/N:**_ _This is basically a dumping ground for a series of Rivetra drabbles I'm working on-canon-compliant, with a non-linear timeline, so they'll be jumping back and forth a lot. Title stolen from, yes, the Smashing Pumpkins song, "Disarm."_

 _Basically Petra does things, and Levi doesn't know what to do with himself. (Awkward/panicky Levi is the best, IMO. Strongest dork in the world.)_

* * *

 _Oh, and you're to take Petra with you to the New Year's ball,_ Erwin had said, his voice cool and level as though he had just ordered Levi to refill his gas, to get new blades, to retreat back to town, to die. _It'd be good for people to see you with someone on your arm for once. Assure them you're human after all._

That barely perceptible twinkle in his eye had to have been a trick of the light.

 _Erwin, I don't need—_ he had begun to respond, although looking back on it now he supposes he must have known even then that it was futile, that when the commander spoke with steel in his voice the only acceptable responses were do or die.

 _That's an order._

 _Bastard._ He stands now, washed and combed and pomaded and packed tight into the only good suit he owns, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. He's been standing for at least fifteen minutes. She is usually so quick on the uptake, efficient and farsighted—that's why he picked her for his squad in the first place—and you'd think some of those qualities would translate into the process of getting ready for a stupid party, but no.

It puts a bad taste in his mouth to remember that she's still a woman, after all. It's generally easier not to have to think about such things. Most of the time, he doesn't need to.

He recognizes the sound of her gait before he sees her, hears her call out from the top of the stairs, "Sorry to keep you waiting, captain." Then her feet come into his view, then the hem of her skirt, then he raises his eyes to her face and he knows—

She's definitely one more reason to hate going to these parties, as if he didn't already have a mental list a mile long.

He's quick to school his features before his eyes go wide and his mouth drops embarrassingly open, but even inside that floaty pale green confection of a dress and those high-heeled shoes and those bobby pins stabbing her in the head, she's still Petra, and she's still got those eagle eyes.

"Erm, Petra Ral, reporting for duty," she says, with a little shrug and a half-smile, as if to say, Hey, I don't know how I turned out like this either. Only it's not Petra Ral, Petra Ral with the dirty uniform, blades singing in her hands and the dust of battle settling on her bright hair. But it also is.

She seems flustered when he doesn't answer right away, covers it up with more words. "My dad sent the dress from home. I haven't had a reason to put it on since I was sixteen, but the boys say it, uh, fits just fine, still, even if Auruo insists green isn't my color. How do I look?"

It's a deceptively simple question, but all he can do is stare at her like she's grown a second head. Possible responses war in his mind— _What the hell kind of question is that_ and _I don't care_ and _All right, I guess_ and _Fucking beautiful._ Fucking _beautiful_.

He fixes his eyes back downward instead and scowls at her feet in their embroidered dancing shoes. Even those shoes make him angry. They're so pretty. So goddamn impractical. She'll probably have the time of her life tonight, dancing those shoes off with nobles and those powdered, perfumed little pricks from the military police whose training regimen is probably all dancing, etiquette, playing chess, drinking wine—

"You look fine," is all he tells her, in the end, hoping something so perfunctory will close the book on the issue of her appearance. "Come on, let's get this over with."

You'd think he'd be on high alert after having been so thoroughly caught off guard the first time, but he still isn't prepared for the way the smile widens across her face at his words, rising up from inside her like light, so impossibly warm. Or the way she says "Thank you, captain" with all the sincerity in the world, like it's the highest praise she could ask for and she doesn't know what she did do to deserve it. Or the way that smile bubbles over into a little bell-like laugh as she bobs a curtsey. God _dammit._

Levi turns, putting the warmth and the light at his back where they belong, and stalks ahead of her into the carriage without bothering to offer his arm.

They haven't even arrived at the damn party and already he wants to punch himself in the face.


	2. All the Trees of the Forest

_**A/N:**_ _Squad-Levi-centric vignette, but the Rivetra is there being a huge elephant in the room._

* * *

They think they can protect her, hide her until they make it all the way back inside. Each one of them knows it's probably futile, but they wouldn't dare call themselves a real team if they didn't try anyway, staunchly to the last, like true soldiers.

Erd ties the tourniquet himself, grasping a section of her already torn cloak in his hands and reducing it to ribbons, looping the cloth up and over her arm to cover the dark red stain soaking fast through her clothes above the shoulder blade. He pulls it tight enough to make her gasp, but it should stop the bleeding until they can get her back into HQ and over to Hanji's clinic.

The other two run up as he lifts her upright. Their eyes fall on the mess that's been made of her back and it's apparently ugly enough to make Gunther hiss, a soft, sharp whistle of air through gritted teeth.

"Goddamn, that's a lot of blood. Is this what my ma meant when she told me that women bleed a lot?"

"Don't be stupid." She tries for a brave smile, although she has to admit to feeling a bit faint from the blood loss. "It doesn't even hurt, you guys. I just, I just hit a tree, that's all."

Gunther offers her his arm, and she grasps it readily with her good hand so she can lean on it at least part of the way back, Erd falling into step on her other side to steady her in case she falls. "You guys," she says again. "I guess it did… bleed a lot, though."

It's a bit of a hike to get back home, but it doesn't seem long enough when Petra thinks of who'll be waiting there. "The captain's going to kill me, isn't he?"

"Maybe." Auruo brings up the rear, draping his cloak over her shoulders with an exaggerated flourish. It will hide the evidence, if nothing else. "Or maybe he's going to kill us," he drawls. "For taking you through all those tight turns on your first week of high-speed maneuver training. Or maybe he'll kill all the trees of the forest for having so many sharp, protruding branches."

The very thought makes her cringe. She rotates her shoulder upward a little, experimentally, winces when the pain lances hot through it, all the way down her back. "It, erm, doesn't seem broken, at least."

"That gash'll need stitches though," Erd puts in, not unkindly—but he may as well be telling her the sky is blue, or that a titan will eat you as soon as look at you. "No two ways about it."

She groans. Gunther squeezes her hand in an attempt to be reassuring, and possibly to make up for the "bleeding" comment.

"No worries, we've got you. We'll get you in through the back door."

* * *

They're supposed to be the best of the best, the crown jewel of the Survey Corps–no, quite possibly of the entire military force. As such, each one of them feels an acute sense of failure at being unable to anticipate that on this day, at this precise hour, right around the time they had planned to return from their training, their captain would see fit to do some weeding in the rear garden. They catch sight of him from the end of the path, when he's still just a dot with a white bandanna at the edges of their vision, but even then, each one of them knows in a heartbeat that it's too late.

Auruo, as always, is most eloquent about it. "Oh shiiiiiiiii—"

Erd and Gunther are faster, letting go of Petra, pushing lightly on the small of her back with their hands, urging her without words to stand straighter, to walk taller, at least for this last stretch of land between them and safety. All their lives may well depend on it.

Levi stands to meet them but doesn't come forward, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand, a fistful of weeds clenched in the other. All four of them look down at the hand holding the weeds, take note of the telltale tightness around the knuckles.

"Welcome back." It is high summer and the sun is burning at their backs, but in the mere seconds since he opened his mouth the air has turned inexplicably frosty.

"Sir!" They respond as one. Each, after their own fashion, silently offers up a prayer.

"Your little trip through the forest went well, I hope." His eyes skim over each of them in turn, stopping over Petra, sweeping up and down her body in a way that under normal circumstances would make her blush, but right now only sends dread coursing electric down her spine. "You're favoring your left side, Petra."

She opens her mouth to respond, but all that comes out of it is a breathy wheeze. Her comrades are eyeing her sidelong, entreating—they've got to get out of this together. They're a team, after all.

Petra closes her mouth, clears her throat, tries again. "I'm–I'm just a bit tired, sir. Need to take a bit of weight off my sword arm. The boys really put me through my paces today."

"Did they?" His eyebrow lifts a tiny, deadly fraction. "Gunther, how would you assess her maneuvers?"

"C-clean as a wh-whistle, sir." He would have nearly choked on the words, had Erd and Auruo not been beside him, inconspicuously digging their elbows into his gut. "We c-c-c-can't wait until you see her in the field."

"Hmm. You've all gone above and beyond the call of duty today, it seems."

They take this as a cue to let loose the breath they've been collectively holding, but then his hand opens and he drops the weeds. They fall into a very crumpled, very dead heap at his feet, and in true synchrony the stomachs of all his squad members drop as one into their shoes. Of course this is another miscalculation. If this had been a real mission they'd all be torn limb from limb by now.

"The three of you can finish up this flower bed for me, since everyone's been doing so well. I don't want a single foreign leaf or bud left alive in the whole patch by nightfall, is that clear?" His eyes snap to Petra, hard and steely, as though he can see straight through clothing, flesh and bone. "And you."

"S-sir?" Petra all but squeaks. She looks like all the blood has drained out of her body and seeped into the ground, but she holds herself up admirably nonetheless, spine as straight as she can afford without pain, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I want you in my office," he tells her shortly, and steps right on the weeds as he turns on his heel. No one needs to see them to know that they've been crushed completely flat under the sole of his boot. "Stat."


	3. Muscle Memory

An unsurprisingly Spartan office–a wooden desk, chair, bookcase in the corner, spotless uncarpeted floor. On the desk, the following items: large basin of water, washcloth, needle, cotton, scissors. Bottles of disinfectant, roll of bandages, spool of thread.

"Let me see your shoulder." He busies himself with the alcohol and a few cotton balls, polishing the needle to a completely sterile, germ-free gleam. His eyes are turned studiously downward and away from her. "Can you manage your buttons one-handed or do I have to do that for you, too?"

A rush of blood to her cheeks; she moves to unbutton her collar and pull her right arm as gently as she can out of the sleeve, drop one side of her shirt open to lay the wound bare. Her arms cross over her chest, bunching the cloth close in the interest of modesty but also to keep it out of his way later on. The shirt is ruined, anyway, and will probably be sent on a one-way trip to the incinerator as soon as they're done here.

"Is it deep?" The liquid, swishing sound of the water in the basin as it's disturbed.

"A little." The washcloth presses down. Her fingers tighten a little on the arm of the chair as he begins to scrub lightly. "But wider across, hence the bleeding."

Then, a slight chemical tang in the air. Something cold and viscous being spread over the wound.

"For the pain. It'll be a bit before it takes, though." An unnecessary explanation, but one that fills the space in the air between them. "You'll want it before I go in with the needle."

His voice cracks a little on the last few words, but she knows she only hears it because they're so close together, and she's always had sharp ears. It's to be expected; he's touching a potential breeding ground for microbes, after all.

"How did you learn how to do all this?"

"I taught myself." His fingers are on her bare back now, glancing over the skin around the injury, stopping from time to time to apply a gentle pressure. "Sutures, bonesetting. It's useful to learn." Then, pointedly, "Our medics die off as quickly as the rest of us, after all."

"Don't you hate it, though?" The question falls out of her mouth before she can stop it. The word hate feels strangely personal, too close—she can almost see it hanging there, floating in the center of the room.

"Hate what?" She senses, rather than sees, his eyebrow go up.

"This. Blood. Dirt. Germs." She makes a sweeping gesture, as if to underscore the general uncleanness of the very air they breathe. "Touching people."

A brief silence, then: "We all have responsibilities. It just so happens that you're mine." His hand moves down the bone of her shoulder blade, and she dearly hopes he doesn't see how it's raising gooseflesh on her arms. "One of many, as I hope you're aware. Does this hurt?"

"No, I'm ready for the needle now." The feeling of it pressing in after the anesthetic is curious—not piercing, exactly, and there's barely any pain. Just that, pressure. Infinitely less unsettling than that hand on her skin, and she frowns, rankled.

"I'm sorry to be such a nuisance, captain." The needle continues to move steadily, in and out, and she can feel the thread pulling the torn edges of flesh closed. "I wouldn't have presumed to ask for your personal care."

"I never asked you to go out and injure yourself on a training run either," he retorts, just a little sharp. "But you did anyway."

" _I_ never asked _you_ to make me your responsibility." This is most definitely not the sort of tone you take with your commanding officer, especially when you're wounded and he happens to be holding a sharp object. Then again, she has always found she thrives in high-risk conditions. "But you did anyway. And you must know as well as I do that sometimes things don't go according to plan." She lifts her head to face him, realizes this is the first time they've looked each other in the eye since entering this room. "Sir."

Outside the high window at their backs, sundown. The last rays touch everything in the office from books to desk to floor, rubbing it the same red-gold as her hair. His gaze strays from her, toward the light—if his face shifts then, softens out of its usual stony expression, she must surely be imagining it.

The needle goes still. She shifts a little in the chair, suddenly, uncomfortably aware of two things—first, how the hand that holds it has come to rest, almost of its own accord, against the nape of her neck, and second, how she's never been alone with him in such close quarters before.

Then: "Tell me what happened." An order, but his tone now is surprisingly level. Even, and not at all unkind, though no one would be so stupid as to call it warm. The needle resumes.

"We were doing high speeds today. The turn was tight, and I made the ascent a bit too fast, I think–the branch caught me on the way up and dragged." She feels her own face relax, manages a small, rueful smile. "The enemy was a hardwood-class, probably an elm. Heavy branch. Lots of protrusions."

A snort. "It'll probably make a decent table then. We could use a new one in the common room."

Was that a joke? Should she laugh? No, better not.

The needle stops again. "Your safety is important to us." His other hand, without warning, grasps the lengths of her hair, gathering them neatly to one side, and her pulse accelerates. "You're no good to anybody injured or dead."

 _Oh. He needs to be able to see where to make the knot._ She doesn't realize right away that she's been holding her breath. _Right._

"I was under the impression that we in the rank and file were dispensable." She's choosing her words carefully this time, but it's harder to school the rest of her body—to order it not to shift, or shiver, or break out in a storm of goosebumps, or spontaneously combust.

The scissors snip. "You're under my command now; your life will end when I say it can. Lift your arm a little." The bandages now, looping around her shoulder, under her arm, up again. This is work he needs to bend a little closer to her in order to do well, and he doesn't avoid her gaze this time. "Don't go getting hurt without my permission again."

"Understood, captain." It's a mechanical response, almost muscle memory, betraying nothing. His eyes, though, she thinks—up close and when they're not squinting all the way into the back of his skull, it's easy enough to see that his eyes are not completely black, but grey. Like a storm, or something poetic like that.

"Very good." Then he is straightening, lifting himself up and away from her, turning back toward his desk to tidy it up. She takes this as her cue to right her clothing, pull her ruined shirt and jacket back protectively over her skin. "Now get to bed, Petra, and don't let me see you until that shoulder heals."

"Sir." She rises from the chair then—she'd salute, but it would pull at her shoulder, and he isn't looking at her anyway. "I'll show myself out."

The swift, crisp thud of his door as it closes crescendoes to a roar in her ears.


	4. Fight or Flight

**A/N:** Levi's like, omfg I love her gross, gross gross gross.

* * *

Fear is a primitive impulse, an emotional response provoked most often by a specific and immediate danger. When the sensory organs feed the requisite information to the brain, the latter reacts immediately to defend against the possible threat. Such a quick response is necessary to ensure survival, though the precise nature of the reaction varies depending on the intensity of the fear, the timing, the coping options available. Human beings estimate the risks and vulnerability of the threat almost instantly and then fight, freeze, focus, or flee based on this assessment.

Like this: Petra Ral, height 158 cm, weight unknown in the interest of politeness and professionalism. Titan, 10-m class. Petra-to-Titan-mouth ratio roughly equivalent to biscuit-to-human-mouth ratio (probably, _what the fuck ever_ ). Distance from point A (Levi) to point B (titan + Petra), roughly 6 rooftops, _too damn far_. Reinforcements: Auruo from the rear, going for the nape. 3DMG operational, gas tank at 85%. Average flight speed fast, but possibly not fast enough.

Once the brain jumpstarts the fear response, a number of physiological changes are felt throughout the entire body in a matter of seconds, akin to the sounding of an alarm that kicks the fight-or-flight response into gear. It looks like this: cold hands, deep and rapid breathing, increased heart rate, heightened blood pressure, sweating, dry mouth, and trembling or tightening of the muscles, especially in the arms and legs. Tiny signs, things someone would have to get close to him in order to discern, but no one ever gets that close, in the heat of battle or otherwise.

(He remembers being told that on fairly rare occasions, extreme fear leads to loss of bladder control. He's seen it a couple of times among the younger soldiers, heard Erd and Gunther joke about something to that effect happening on their first expedition as a squad, though of course Levi himself was clearing a path ahead of them at the time and never found it necessary to verify this information.)

He's always thought he had no head for science, but just this minute the inside of his head sounds like a fucking textbook. He can almost hear Hanji reading the words aloud, chattering, interjecting, grabbing the concepts out of the air and stuffing them down his ear canals—cut here, this muscle closes and opens the jaw, that one pulls the tongue forward and up, the titan body is lighter than it appears, wedge the mouth open with your body and—

Two blades thrust into the floor of the mouth on either side of the tongue as handholds against the swallowing reflex. Deluge of blood and saliva. Petra Ral, conscious and alert and very much alive. Two hands, two hands, lift, jump—her arms twisted around his neck, the added weight of her and her gear now the most welcome of burdens.

A second spurt of blood from behind as Auruo's blade bites and finds its way home, and the two of them come clear of the body as it falls, practically flying.

"C-captain!" She's all but yelling directly in his ear, but he finds he can't hear her all that well over the air rush. "I'm so sor—"

Hanji in his head again, telling him the amygdala serves as the integrative center for the processing of emotions within the human brain, and controls emotional behavior, motivation, and learning. The amygdala is involved, in particular, in forming a kind of primitive emotional memory–the instinctive recognition of sources of potential pleasure, versus those of potential threat. His arm feels like a metal bar where it's locked around her waist, petrifying from the shoulder down, crushing her against him.

"Do I have all of you here?" His mouth moves, he can feel the speech vibrate in his throat, knows the words he means to say. He probably sounds as calm as ever, but all he hears is the panicked, high-alert hammering of his heart—or is that hers? The commotion starts where their chests are pressed together so tightly it's hard to breathe, builds to an internal scream that blocks out nearly everything else. "Ten fingers, ten toes?"

When fear passes, it is often accompanied by relief, and sometimes by exhilaration, the feeling of a "surge" that is in actuality a variety of chemicals being emitted by the brain. Much of human emotion can be traced back in this way to the fluctuating presence of such chemicals. Adrenaline, endorphins, dopamine. Fear, desire, anxiety, the falling sensation that gives rise to the expression "falling in love."

"All accounted for, sir," she says, and, "you've got me," and only then does it occur to him that they're probably disgusting, holding onto each other like this, drenched in sweat and sticky with titan fluids, the steam rising off of them in clouds. Flying. It's enough to make his stomach turn.

He almost imagines he can feel her mouth move where her face is pressed against his jacket, picture the shape of her smile. "We probably stink."

His own responses are suddenly confused and highly contradictory—all at once he wants to drop her on the nearest rooftop, to run away, to carry her all the way home. To hide, to jump in the shower and stand under the water for days, until he's scrubbed away all the filth he's covered in, and her warmth, and her weight.

"No shit," he says. Leaves it at that for now. He wonders briefly if he should ask Hanji for the names of the chemicals that are responsible for this feeling, and if human surgery has advanced to the point that someone can cut open his head and flush them all out of his body, but even as he thinks it he knows—even if it were possible, he'd likely die.

The sound of her laughter in his ear is absurd.


End file.
